


Oaths

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abandonment, Altar Sex, Alternate Universe - Demons, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Bondage, Breathplay, Choking, Collars, Creampie, Demon Sex, Each Chapter is Different, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Sex, F/M, Femdom, Gags, Gentle Sex, Gun Kink, Knifeplay, Leashes, M/M, Manipulation, Marking, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Control, Muddled Consciousness, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdoor Sex, Overstimulation, Plantbending, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Predator/Prey, Religion Kink (mild), Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Shower Sex, Somnophilia, Unconscious Sex, Unsafe Sex, Wildly Different Chapter Tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-02-25 22:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18711004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: Dirk Strider is good at many things. Taking compliments and knowing himself aren't among them, but only because compliments and self-contemplation are useless when you already know exactly how good you are at what you do, which is hunting demons. Definitely not a job requiring much in the way of self-reflection.Then again, there are a lot of different ways this story—hisstory—could go.Aren't there?





	1. the scenery is so loud

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sartorially](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sartorially/gifts).
  * Inspired by [prayers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15067706) by [thescyfychannel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel). 



> so if any of y'all remember _prayers_ this is...  
> well, someone read prayers, and wanted more, and this happened

You'd like to think you're pretty good at casual sex, but saying so out loud would make you an actual liar, so you usually don't. One night stands are as one night stands do, but one night stands don't _usually_ insist on taking you home to meet their...roommates? Family?

The guy wasn't very clear, but he's hot enough to make up the ~~confusion~~ difference, so you're not going to complain. Complaining is difficult. Especially when you've got a gorgeous dick in your mouth. 

In fact, you're totally intending to have that gorgeous dick in your mouth _again,_ relatives or not, just as soon as this dude takes you up to "tour" his room.

 

You were totally not intending to be absolutely fucking floored by the sight of three equally hot twenty-somethings (or young looking thirty- or forty-somethings, it's a little hard to tell), and also not intending to realize exactly why your gorgeous one night stand looked vaguely familiar upon seeing a foursome (fuck, don't go there) of incredibly attractive human beings.

Er.

Demon beings.

You are really regretting not checking those updated files your cousin sent you right about now.

 

"Relax, Dirk," Jake says, his hand still on the small of your back. "No one here intends you a lick of harm you wouldn't like. Then again, that does give us the widest of margins to fiddle with, doesn't it! Didn't have a doubt in my mind that everyone here would be stuck on you in no time flat."

"Welp," you say, because his hand is creeping closer to your ass, and there are now three extra demons staring at you like you're a full Vegas buffet. "Cool."

You'll have the next month (or so) to realize that it is not, in fact, cool, but for now, you're blissfully ignorant about the way things will turn out, even if your wildest wet dreams are fast on their way to becoming moderately disturbing premonitions. Thinking with your dick will soon prove to be one of the greatest, most glorious mistakes you will ever make in your young life.

 

* * *

 

Jake takes you on the grand tour before you can overthink it, and you find yourself caught up in the beauty of the Crocker Demons' home before very long. They're a "matched set", apparently, and you decide against asking what that means because you've got a feeling the woman that turned them—fucking Betty Crocker—would be all too pleased to see your reaction to the answer.

No matter how many times Jake _promises_ you that she's not here, you're still just a little bit on edge, and unfortunately, you think he likes that.

 

His room's not the stopover you'd been hoping for, either. Instead of picking up on any of your oh-so-subtle hints that you might enjoy testing out the general comfort levels of his bed, he's all too quick to usher you out into the gardens, _insisting_ that you'll want to see everything the mansion has in store.

Some sections are orderly, designed with a specific purpose in mind—like sprawling orchards and beautiful vineyard, the rows and rows of fruits and vegetables—and others seem to be overgrown with lush, verdant life. He points out a jungle section, a forest area, fields of wildflowers and all manner of other things, all of which you are thoroughly unable to appreciate with your dick screaming _fuck me_ at the top of its little, nonexistent lungs.

For once in your life, single-minded determination is proving to be a complete and utter distraction. How could this happen to you. Never before has such a thing ever occurred. This is absolutely awful. Also, you think you've already stained your boxers with pre-come.

 

Distracted as you are, it takes you a bit of time to notice that along the rounds of this tour, Jake English-Crocker has acquired a touch more gear than he'd had previous, a few extra tools that you're maybe thinking he picked up with you specifically in mind. "Uh," you say, because truly you are a master of eloquence, "nice gun. And...what kind of knife is that?"

"Don't you worry your precious little head!" He gives you another brilliant smile, and you're reminded that he's a rather _strapping_  young lad, very well able to take you down and pin you there, and you swallow hard, your eyes flicking from his tight shorts to his tool belt to his face. It's then that you notice his eyes are just a little _too_  green, his ears are just a little _too_  pointy, and his teeth, well, you're starting to feel like Little Orange Riding Hood all up in this bitch for a good damn reason. "We're going to have absolute oodles of fun, I promise you."

"My, what pointy teeth you have," you mutter under your breath, forgetting that your opponent could easily overhear.

"The better to eat you with," Jake replies, and his grin spreads wide. "Now,  _run_."

So you do.

 

* * *

 

For reasons unknown, you head into the jungle. 

 

It's not your smartest move. You have a feeling that you'd have a better chance at escape going through the forest, but you've got another, much _stronger_ feeling that Jake's going to enjoy himself quite a bit more now that you've chosen the jungle.

You've also got a feeling that you're in way over your head, but that's been a persistent thing since you started, so really, it's part of the normal background noise by now.

 

Demons have powers beyond your imagining, and one of them seems to have had a hand in the creation of these areas. Sweltering heat overwhelms you once you get further into the jungle, and you can hear Jake's laughter echoing through the heavy air. Instead of stripping out of your shirt like an amateur, you pocket your shades and pick up your pace to a run, neatly dodging vines and flashstepping away from potential pratfalls or danger.

You'd like to think you'll be able to give him a good chase, and towards the end, a good fight. So far, you've managed to keep a steady lead on him, and even set up a few miniature "traps" of your own, ones you can hear him trip. He's careless, reckless, traits that you didn't expect would endear him to you any, but your body has a mind of its own, and it's almost all you can do to focus on your own progress, instead of considering his.

Your progress and abilities become slightly less impressive when you realize that Jake has taken to the fucking _trees,_ and is currently leaping along overhead and slightly to your seven, a setup that looks to be rapidly improving the odds for him and screwing the odds in favor of you. You're doing your best not to think about your odds (and ends) getting screwed, as contemplating a loss is nothing but a distraction, but you're really not doing well at all.

And then he tackles you into a goddamn taro plant and all bets are off.

 

"You made _such_ a good hunt." Jake's practically purring the words in your ear, and your hips roll up on automatic, a reaction that makes him laugh, a reaction that lets _you_ trace the line of his throat and the cut of his jaw with your eyes as you wish you could map them with your tongue. His knees are pinning your hands, his hands are moving over your skin, a sharp set of contrast that makes you shudder, and things only get worse when his fingertips brush your throat. "Oh ho! Well, chap, someone's going to love hearing about your, ah...proclivities, I suppose—that's for sure!"

You want to shudder, maybe beg, maybe moan—you've never felt so read before, so open and vulnerable and naked and _seen_ and _fuck_ he runs his tongue over your pulse and you end your string of mental adjectives on a very vocal cry.

He seems to take this as an answer (or offer), and you hiss as he lifts back onto his knees, pressing your hands deeper into soft mud. "You make such pretty prey," Jake says, and before you can gather any sort of reply, you're moving again, onto a tangle of ferns and mosses, and he's stripping you bare.

"Jake, hold up—" is all you get out before he's using your shirt (dammit, you liked that one) to wipe you clean. " _Jake,_ dude, towels are a thing, c'mon."

"So are cleaning spells," he says, fangs bared in a painfully arousing parody of his roguish smile. "But really, I'm doing you a favor! You'll need to grow accustomed to losing your clothes, Dirk."

"You're a fucking dick," you mumble, and when your hands glitter over green and suddenly clean, you swear even louder. "Seriously?"

"Your hand's going up my rear end! I'd like it as brand spanking new as possible."

"Spanking? Seriously? That's pretty vanilla for a demon," you say, and he shoves your—thankfully still not muddy, definitely pre-come stained—underwear into your mouth. "Mmph."

"That's the ticket!" This dude would qualify as several classes of bedroom kink if it wasn't for the fact that he's a demon, and what you know of demons tends to lean more to the...interesting side of the line. From what you can tell, Jake's still pretty goddamn vanilla, even if he's duct-taping your mouth shut and pulling out a—hm, that's a gun, yep. 

You wonder what your expression looks like, because he laughs. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not starting with this," Jake says, and hangs it up on a conveniently close tree branch. "No, hm...ah _ha_ , here we go!"

When he pulls out a fucking knife, you decide that it is absolutely your prerogative to worry as much as you damn well please. In fact, you're reaching for the duct tape when vines lash out at you, snagging your hands and hauling them back down. Another flash of green in Jake's eyes and your wrists are bound together behind your back, leaving you just a little bit more helpless than you were before.

You glare. Jake beams.

"Off to an splendid start, really," he informs you, as the vines haul you further up the tree. One drapes around your neck, and your eyes go wide— _fuck you thought he said someone else was into breath play you did not brace for this_ —and then he reaches up to stroke it into something resembling black leather and silvery metal, a collar clipped onto a leash. "Perfection."

If it weren't for the fucking vines, you'd probably be going weak at the knees, but you'd really prefer that Jake not realize that any time soon. Fortunately, you've got years of deadpanning to back you up, and you keep a stone-faced expression on as you stare him down, practically willing him to try anything funny.

You think—you _maybe_  think—he's enjoying that. Maybe.

It's mainly because his next move is pressing the flat of the blade to the back of your head, a tacit threat that has you leaning forward automatically, moving into his space, nearly shuddering as you feel the heat of his lips even through the duct tape—

He releases you after far too short a time, and the disappointed noise he makes when he pulls away feels like a stab to the gut. You've managed to keep yourself from getting completely hard through sheer force of will (and, you know, recovery time post-exertion), but your dick's definitely gotten a little chubbier from its time spent pressed up against those tight fucking short shorts. "No, it's really not quite the same through the tape, is it? Next time you'll have to remind me to bring a ring gag along."

 _Next time._ Your brain seizes on those two words as he drags the knife down your back, blunt back of it practically stroking over your spine, and your dick goes from half-hard to rock solid, resting in the palm of his hand. As much as you hope you'd imagined it jumping, whenever he'd made a point—fuck—of pressing the tip of the knife somewhere, of reminding you that it was, in fact, quite sharp, you could measure your reactions by the way Jake's expression went from amused to very well pleased. It was almost a flattering thing—or it would've been, if it weren't for the fact that he was a goddamn demon.

When he drops the knife, your attention automatically follows it, all of your training reminding you to keep your eyes on the weapon.

He's been counting on this, you realize, when the soft _click_ of a gun is magnified simply by the way he's got it pressed up against your skull. You freeze in place, and Jake laughs, a softly insidious thing. "Now then," he tells you, as if he doesn't have a gun to your skull as if you're not naked in the middle of a goddamn jungle, "you're going to fuck my ass."

Holy fucking _shit._

This dude is the biggest power bottom you've ever met. _  
_

You'd like to inform him that if he wanted you to rail him, he could've asked politely instead of using a gun, but one, your boxers are in your mouth, two, he duct taped over your mouth, and three, well.

The gun is really doing it for you.

So you turn your attention to his ass, stroking over the fabric, and he laughs. You know Demonic by sound, but you don't know what he says—only that it makes his pants and boxers vanish, the vines loosen around your wrists, and coats your fingers with something you're really hoping is lube.

His hands are braced on the tree he'd hung the gun on earlier, and you grin behind the tape when he moans, already sensitive to the first press of your fingertips against his ass. Maybe this is gonna work for you after all—and then he coughs politely, and the gun is staring you right in the fucking face once more. "I'd prefer not to test my aim at such an awkward angle, so let's do our best to have a jolly good time, hm?"

It takes a supreme force of will to avoid rushing the foreplay part of the equation, because you are rock fucking solid and really wanting to fuck his brains out.

You're gonna have to call Rose up after this and get psychoanalyzed or _something._

The literal second you're done prepping his plush rump, the vines snap your wrists back into place and you're left with your dick waving around in the bare air, lowkey panicking and highkey trying not to let it show. "Mmrph?" _  
_

"Haha, whoops! Forgot about that, let me just..." Instead of releasing your hands, vines twist around your dick, hold his ass in the right position, and you shiver just a little bit at the feeling of thoroughly organic material moving against your skin.

Jake makes a _tch_ of annoyance, and the vines fall away from his ass. "I can seat myself on his blunderbuss, thank you very much!" He's very lucky you're stupid turned on right about now because _shitting hell._ "Leash, please." Never mind. Fuck luck. He's going to keep a gun on you with one hand and a leash on you with the other? Oh, _fuck._

With the vines holding you in place, you've become little more than a toy for goddamn Jake English-Crocker's amusement and pleasure. It's a distressingly comfortable position to be in, and you shudder as his fine posterior slowly sinks onto your _goddamn blunderbuss._ _  
_

Despite all of the absolute nonsense attached to it, Jake really _does_ have a fucking amazing ass, and an amazing ass for fucking, and you've never been a man not to take advantage of the things thrust upon you. Literally, in this case, but it's hard not to when he jerks your leash hard enough that the humidity-dampened gun barrel drags alongside your forehead and your hips snap forward in automatic answer. _  
_

The movement sets him off-balance, the way you'd hoped it might, but his stupid vines balance things out and you both land on the ground with a minimum of fuss and trouble. Jake looks damn good on his knees, and he loops the leash around one wrist for safety, grinding his hips back into each thrust. All of your focus narrows to him, to the curve of his neck, the dip of his spine, the beautiful span of his shoulders, soft dark hair you ache to bury your hands in, tanned skin you're eager to kiss—he's spellbinding, and worse, you know he knows he's already got you bound.

"This is hardly the time to get introspective, Dirk," he informs you between thrusts, and his tone is lofty enough that you pull yourself all the way out and _slam_ back in. " _Oh_ fuck, there's a good boy, _yes_ —suppose it's not the time for calling you out, hah, either, hm?"

You should say the fuck not. You _would_ say the fuck not, if he hadn't fucking gagged you, the little shit. Instead, you redouble your pace, bearing down on him until he's practically sideways, bracing on his elbow and shoulder to keep the gun's threat up, the hand on your leash yanked down so hard it's practically between his thighs.

"You're _quite_ good at this," he tells you, half a second before you ram into him once more. Even with his face crushed against the sweet-scented ferns, he's gorgeous, and you're determined to use each movement to tell him as much.

Also maybe to shut him up. It's a little bit for that too.

 

The harder you fuck him, the louder he gets and the more incoherent he becomes. It's a nice little tradeoff that you're taking full advantage of, enjoying the sight of a demon bowed before you, almost able to pretend that you haven't been tied up and leashed like you're some kind of goddamn beast. Hunter training—shit, right, you've...probably missed that today—has afforded you an astonishing amount of stamina, but you're nearing your limit, jungle swelter making sweat run down your body (and Jake's too, _damn_ ) in rivulets that do little to cool your overheating skin.

"Close, aren't you?" You hate the fact that he can sound like he's getting utterly destroyed one moment, moaning like his life is _literally_ about to end, then calm and collected in the next. Your grunt of reply makes him laugh, a smudge of dirt across one smug cheek, the green stains on his skin nearly a match for the green of his eyes. "Come on, then, Dirk! Hold the course!"

Being gagged turns your snarl into something much closer to a noise of pleasure, and Jake laughs again. You can't help it—the sound, the sight of his sharper teeth, the hint of point to his ears, the burning green of his eyes—and you thrust forward, burying yourself deep in his ass as you come.

Jake's purring, a noise that makes you wonder how close kin demons are to cats, and you curl over his body, shakes running through you hard. You'd almost gone into multiple orgasms, you think, but now you're on your last fragments of strength, practically ready to collapse into a dead sleep. "Ah ah ah," he murmurs, dropping the gun and propping himself back up. "No, I'm not ready for you to be done."

You think you're gonna die, here and now, your dick buried in his ass, and you think he's going to enjoy killing you via sex. Trying to pull away doesn't work—the vines wrap around you once more, only going slack when you press your hips back in, and you've barely had a chance to go soft when he's murmuring something in demonic, painfully enticing, a sweet kind of pain that spins itself through your bones.

Something—some iron control, maybe, some flicker of will, _something_ —breaks, shatters into a million tiny pieces, and you can _feel_ your dick get hard again, still inside him as it is. Whatever it was, it leaves your mind in a burning haze and your body in a worse one. You rut against him, almost like the beast he'd chained you as, and your back presses flush against his as your hips snap forward again and again.

He squeezes down around you, laughing, and you'd snarl if you had the mouth and breath for it. All you have now is this burning need to see him spill, your focus centered entirely on him, on the sound of his hips against yours, on the slick tightness around your dick, on the way he moans—

Jake's climax is a glorious thing, glowing white and traced with green, the way he spills across all the broken ferns and moss, the way he arches back into you. You think you come again, you think blanking out into a gloriously blissful high is another climax, but you're not sure and it's hard to tell when you feel yourself falling, falling, _falling_...

 

* * *

 

You don't recall going back into the mansion, you don't remember being cleaned up; you come to yourself tucked into a massive bed, Jake wrapped around you and purring as he fucks your ass open slow. This time, you spill over him, an almost painful high, and blank out again.

He keeps you for a week, running you through your paces and demanding you fuck him at the end, sparring with you and riding you after, or making you ride him, taking you wherever and whenever he likes. He's a wild thing, this emerald boy, and you wonder what he'd be like tamed—or if he's planning on taming you.

At the end of the week, he finally finishes the tour of the house he'd planned, ending right outside of John Egbert-Crocker's room.

And then he vanishes, leaving you completely alone in front of a door, and you watch as it slowly swings open.


	2. move in circles

When you first met John Egbert, you assumed he was as open a book as he seemed. Bright blue eyes like an evening sky, slowly deepening into dusk, could easily entrance you. You'd learned not to assume everything someone had seemed, but his approach was as straightforward as his eyes. He'd take you to bed, he'd fuck you as long and as hard as you liked, regardless of how many times you came or passed out, and the next....day? hour? either one, he'd do it all again.

You'd assumed this was how your week (or more) would pass, being taken whenever the whim took him, and honestly, you didn't mind in the _least._

And then the third day rolled around and he wouldn't so much as touch you. _  
_

When you passed Jake or Jane or Jade in the hallways, they'd give you sympathetic looks, but none of them seemed willing to risk John's ire by touching you themselves, even though you could tell—you were _sure_ —the way they looked at you was a mixture of sympathetic and wanting.

John was perfectly cheerful and bright—you'd sit down to a meal with him, he'd laugh and he'd chat, then he'd be off on his merry way again. A day in, you were confused. Two, and you were aching.

When the third day of not being touched at all, even after he'd been fucking you hard, bringing you to the edge and hard over, came rolling back around, the fifth day of being _his_ , it was damn _painful._

The worst part of it, you think, is that you can see it in his eyes. Those same, sky-deep eyes you'd once fallen into assuming were so clean and clear, hid all the darker depths you'd wondered at. Darkness, smug darkness, the same shade Jake wore, the same hue all demons had, promise and threat bound into one. He knew what you were thinking, he knew what you were feeling, and he was _waiting_ for you to crack.

 

* * *

 

Twelve hours pass of the third day and you're already halfway to begging on bended knee. When you walk into his room and he's sitting there, stroking himself off so casually, like he's got nothing else better to do, it's the last straw on the back of your patience.

You sink down to your knees, drop the shades, and stare up at him, even more vulnerable now that you're showing off the orange of your eyes. He regards you with little but amusement, still jerking himself off at a leisurely pace. "Did you need something, Dirk? I'm a little busy right now!"

"Please," you rasp out, staring up at him. "Fuck, John, _please._ "

"I have no idea what you're asking for, Dirk! You're going to have to be a little bit more specific."

You crawl across the floor, not bothering to hide the fact that you're rock fucking solid, and end at his knees. "I need your cock, John. Please. _Please,_ fuck me, John, it's been _days_ —"

"Two days," he tells you, and something in you drops. He'd really been doing this on _purpose,_ the utter bastard. "Two days without getting fucked and you're begging on your knees! This is impressive, you know? I mean, wow!"

What little pride you have left suggests telling him to enjoy fucking himself and walk away while you still can, and when you see something flash in blue eyes, a reaction to a thought you'd left unsaid, you're suddenly reminded of all those _suggestions_ your mind used to give, when Jake wanted you open and raw.

 

John has never been soft; his hand hurts in your hair as he yanks your head back, and you can feel all the blood that hasn't gone straight to your dick pounding through your body. "Come on, Dirk. You can't _demand_ favors! Ask nicely."

 _His_ dick is right up against your face, the tip dragging over your skin and leaving sticky traces behind. "John," you say, and you had never realized that blue could burn, even though you've seen it in the heart of all the brightest fire. "John, please, I'll do anything you want, _just let me have a taste_ —"

He smears the tip of it over your lips, letting it drag across your tongue for a moment and no more, and you moan the way you remember him liking it a few nights ago. As long as you can figure out how to work his angles, you're in the clear, you'd gotten Jake and you could get him too, as long as you focused, as long as you didn't get distracted by his dick, as long as you stayed the fuck on task—

Something blue and something breeze-bound curls around your throat, and you feel the slightest bit of pressure. "You've got a _very_ high opinion of your puppeteering skills, Mr. Strider," John says, and it's the softest you've ever heard his voice. Maybe the most dangerous, too. "I think I'm offended!"

"Shit, I didn't mean—John, I swear—" You don't get a chance to say what you didn't mean, or even actually swear, because the wind tightens up around your throat and your pants almost immediately tighten up around your hardening cock. Right. Okay. So _this_  was who Jake had meant when he said someone was "into that". Holy damn, you're so fucked.

John reaches through the wind like it's nothing to stroke over your throat, and you can tell that he's pleased with what he sees, the strain in your body, the way you're struggling to breathe and loving every moment of it. "You're so _pretty,_ Dirk," he tells you, and all of a sudden the wind eases and the tip of his dick's pushing right into your mouth.

Objectively, you know this is a fact. Subjectively, you have _so_ many issues. Relatedly, whenever a goddamn demon, a demon rumored to be the scum of the earth, known to be the spawn of hell that you're supposed to be _fighting_ calls you pretty, your heart and dick get matching little flutters.

Then again, you think you might give yourself a break for once in your goddamn life, as he's currently got both his hands wrapped around your throat in the gentlest possible way, while he repeatedly shoves his dick _down_ your throat in the exact opposite manner.

You're not going to lie to anyone but everyone except yourself: you _really_ like being used. You like being fucked hard, you like it when the demons manhandle you and treat you dirty.

Actually, part of you thinks you might love it, but again, the rest of you is pretty fucking sure you need therapy.

 

John keeps you there, on the edge of gasping for breath and gagging around his cock, and you don't even care, your thighs pressed tight together to avoid trying to grind against the floor, your eyes watering as he fucks your throat, all of your senses blurred into swirling confusion.

When he comes, he comes hard, just as he thrusts, spilling straight down your throat in a way that makes your ass jealous. You shudder, swallowing around him, and John moans. It's probably the most beautiful noise you've ever heard, a pretty, melodious thing, and it's _almost_ enough to make you come in your pants.

Instead, you stay lucid (ish) and upright (barely) as John slowly pulls the entirely massive length of himself out of your throat, covered in traces of semen and saliva, an utter mess of a thing that's nearly a match for the mess he's made of you. He strokes your face as you kneel there, panting, and your eyes close in a tender kind of bliss that's ruined when his dick slaps against your still-flushed skin. "I don't think I said you were allowed to lay down on the job, Dirk." Your eyes snap open, and his are a sky on fire, burnt blue, as he tightens his grip on your hair. "Did I say that?"

You swallow twice before you can reply, and you wonder about the picture you're making. It's one he seems to like, judging by the way he's got his hand tangled through your hair. "No," you say, and your voice is rough burlap compared to the caress of his silk. His eyes brighten in amusement, and you take another breath. "You didn't, John."

"That's right! Good boy. Maybe I should give you a treat? Instead of punishing you, I mean!" He's released your hair for now, switched yanking for stroking, and you're struggling to stay upright and subservient without melting into a massive puddle of goo.

 

To your list of weird things you've noticed about the demons, you add this: John seems to inspire creativity and excellent decision making skills in absolutely everyone.

Except himself.

 

He proves this now, as he strokes over your hair, debating what punishments would work best—maybe a spanking? He's _already_ left you alone, so that's out, but hm, what would work—

"Fuck," you mutter, and his attention snaps right back to you.

"You're a creative boy," John says, looking the slightest bit relieved. "How about I let you come up with your own punishment, hm?"

"Choke me," you tell him, almost immediately. " _Please_ choke me, fuck—"

"Did that already!" His voice is singsong, but it still hits you right in the pants. "Come on, what else?"

"No, wait, I've got it!" He tosses you onto the bed, knocking the wind out of you (fucking hell) and before you have a chance to yelp, unforgiving wind is ripping your clothing right off your body, twining around your wrists and ankles to hold you in place.

"John—" And wind goes right in your mouth, forcing your jaw open even more than his dick did. Seems like he doesn't want you talking right now.

"See? Much better. You have absolutely no control—actually, you've never had any control! Was it fun thinking you did, when you were fucking Jake? Or pretending to, at least!" John runs his hands over your sides, and you shiver, especially when the next gust of his power curls right around your dick. "You know, I think..."

You turn to look at him and get a full five seconds to see him fiddling with a lube bottle before the wind wraps around your head and jerks you back into place. That, combined with the wet _splurch_ of the lube bottle into thin air is enough to make you question his intentions, especially when he whistles to get your attention.

"Mnnph?"

He squeezes your ass, and your attempt to jerk forward is completely arrested by all the wind on you. "You know, you're a little too nosy! I think some of the others'll probably like it, but I'm looking forward to training it out of you. In the _mean_ time, I'll be nice." The breeze blowing playfully over your back moves over to your front, and you see the lube start to swirl around in it as John's powers shape the gusts into a miniature tornado. " _This_ is going down your ass. Then I am!"

Your attempt to swear is lost in the wind, but John laughs like he's heard it anyway. Apparently, localized twisters feel really weird as thy dance over your skin, and even fucking weirder when they start working your ass open while carrying a full load of lube. You writhe, as much as you're allowed, your dick hard and entire body shivering, the chill of the wind barely countered by the heat of John himself.

You think he's enjoying this, the way goosebumps rise on your skin wherever the wind runs, the way you're simultaneously trying to fuck yourself on his powers and fuck into them and failing at both all at once. He certainly seems pleased with you—and himself—judging by the smug way he lays possessive kisses all down the length of your spine. The attention makes you shudder again, feeling your body threatening to give out, as if you're about to cum and being edged and somehow just starting to get erect all at once.

Eventually you're _really_ going to have to figure out what the fuck is up with their weirdass demon shit.

 

John snaps his fingers, and you can _feel_ your ass stretching open, wider than it had before. Trembling legs give way, and you drop the only inch you'd been allowed, right into the rest of his airspace, leaving you completely at his mercy. It's what he's been waiting for—he grabs your hips and _shoves_ into you, the lube suddenly fully liquid again, your ass entirely coated and entirely full, and—

Oh, _fuck._ He's even bigger than his own goddamn tornado.

 

You take a moment to provide a mental apology to John for assuming that he was being Extra™ with all the prep he'd been doing and the size of his little windstorm. It is, apparently, a very big windstorm.

Also, you definitely do not remember his dick being this large. Or his nails being that...pointy, and claw-like.

Hm.

John _might_ be fucking you in a full or partial demon form.

 

"Now then," he says, and lord help you that silken rumble of a purr is back in full force, "I'm going to fuck your ass until I decide I'm done coming. I hope you know enough demon biology to make this a fun time for me."

You do. You absolutely know that he can definitely come multiple times, that his stamina in this form is guaranteed to be un-fucking-real, and that what he's saying right now is little better than a threat. You are, quite literally, _absolutely fucking screwed._

 

John shoves your shoulders down, pressing your face against the bed as he pulls all the way out, making you feel every inch of his quite frankly _demonic_ dick drag against the inside of your ass. The feeling is absolutely nothing compared to the one that follows when he shoves back in.

You have a go at screaming, and this time, it works. John shoves two fingers into your mouth, somehow careful with his claws, and you feel him stroke over your tongue, a purr rumbling in his chest. "You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna give you what you asked for, because you look _so_ damn good."

His fingers pull slowly out of your mouth, like he's waiting for you to thank him, and insanity takes you over. "You sure it's not just because you're a kinky fuck who's into breathplay?"

" _You_ sound too sure that it can't be both!" His hands wrap around your throat like an embrace; his lips brush against your ear as he leans in. "Deep breath, now."

When you exhale (you've learned every trick to getting the deepest possible breath), you almost miss the loss of his touch. When you breathe in deep, filling your lungs, expanding your chest, you feel his cool skin against yours, a momentary reprieve before the claws prick into your skin, before the grip tightens on your throat, before your mind starts calculating escape routes to get you out of this situation.

And, as always, a quieter part of your mind starts ticking down the seconds to a total loss of control.

 

* * *

 

This is the moment that you learn something else about John Egbert-Crocker: He does not intend to stop.

 

* * *

 

His hands stay tight on your throat, his dick stays hard in your ass, his pounding rhythm stays the same pattern of in-almost-out- _in_  that you'd been begging for with only your eyes these past two days, but you can still _feel_  the change in him, a raw kind of determination that you'd cut your teeth on years ago. Laughter and teasing are long gone; only the demon remains.

You'd be lying if you said it didn't turn you on.

 

Your brain ticks over, and John does not release your throat the way your previous partners have, you do not get the small fragment of control back that you assumed you would have, and the clock in your brain seems to bottom out as John bottoms out in your ass. From the frustrated growl he makes, you're assuming that he's wanting something more than your "fragile" human body is able to give, and your guess is proven true—as they so often are—when he yanks you up onto your knees to let gravity do some of the work.

From here, you've got an excellent view of his dresser mirror, and therefore, an excellent view of the shade your face is turning without any air into your lungs, of the lube splattered across John's hips and your thighs, of the outline of his goddamn dick buried in your ass. You can _see_ it, actually see it, and when he hauls you all the way up, almost off it, just the tip left inside, you can see exactly what he's been fucking you with and you hit the edge of an orgasm so hard it nearly makes you come.

There's a moment where everything hangs in suspension, that second just before the penny drops, the glass breaks, the rope snaps, and that's you, right here, right now, hanging suspended above the finest goddamn dick you've ever seen. It's absolutely extraordinary, demonic enough to match John's extra pair of arms, replicating the gleaming pointed fangs in almost wave-like curls that drag against you like so much soft texture when he shoves in and grind against you when he pulls out, the windswept horns curving back from his head in the serpentine ridges running all along it to dip into a central line, the blue fire eyes and dark-blue-black patterning over his shoulders and back in its shades of sapphire hue. It's also way too fucking much, and you find yourself wondering exactly what spells he's cast to make himself fit inside you, in the space of another extraordinarily long microsecond that hasn't quite ticked over yet.

Then he hauls you down with both sets of hands, tight on your throat and bruising your hips, at the exact same time as he thrusts up into you and you come so hard it spatters the mirror.

 

Passing out is...well, it's a secondary concern.

 

* * *

 

And then you're waking up again, in the weirdest, floating sort of way. You're conscious of...several things. The way your vision darkened, the way the mirror seemed to blur, you'd assumed it was all a side effect of the way your heart had been beating all the way up and down your spine, throat to skull, but...

Oh, right. That was usually a side effect of you getting choked into unconsciousness. 

The rhythmic pounding in your ass, though. That was new.

 

Your senses resurface a good deal faster than your mind, awareness filtering in as odd little bursts of...something. The limp weight of your body held up at four separate points—hip, side, shoulder, two fingers in your mouth—the jerk forward and fall back, the way your dick slaps up against your stomach with each thrust—

John—right, John, John's fucking you—seems to sense your dawning awareness better than you do, because he hauls you upright, tilting you back against his broad chest, and you're once more treated to the sight of yourself in a mirror. At least, you think it's you—things are a little hard to piece together right now, and you don't _usually_ have come spilling out of your ass with each thrust.

Actually, you don't usually have a whole-ass demon in your ass. Fuck. Uh.

 

One of John's hands plants on your chest, now that you're holding yourself up—or, uh, leaning back against him and resting your head on his shoulder—and it's still slick from your saliva. Two others stay on your hips, and you wonder exactly _how_ long he's been fucking you, because there's a hell of a lot of bruising starting to show, and also, you think he's maybe finished more than once. That, or he comes a _lot_ when he comes like this.

Your view's still a little blurry, but only when you're looking at the mirror, streaked with your own come and _still_ reflecting John's grin as his hand dips downwards, making a mess of the semen and lube between your thighs—is it still called semen if it comes out of a demon, fuck, you'll have to ask, uh, someone—before wrapping his hand around your still-flaccid cock.

You definitely do not whimper and half-harden in his hand, and that statement is also definitely a complete and utter lie.

"You're lucky I don't punish you for lying down on the job," John says, and you realize yet another thing about him—he keeps laughter buried in every growl, a joke behind each fang and claw, and you think this might make him one of the most dangerous demons of all.

 

With his fingers in your mouth and his hand around your slowly hardening dick, you manage nothing more than a groan. You're feeling _sloshy,_ to say the least, and the outline of his dick seems a little more softened by the weight of his come, all of your body too sluggishly slow to give proper response.

John makes a disappointed noise, then switches his hands around. You focus on that, them, to try and center yourself once more: upper left has two fingers in your mouth, upper right's now wrapped around your dick, lower left and right hitch up under your knees and—oh, _god._

He's got you at a new angle, your thighs stretched as far apart as they'll go (fuck, he's cooing over how flexible you are), and he's yanking you up and down his dick, practically bouncing you. Getting hard is almost _painful_ , the sweetest ache that burns down to your very bones. The demon in John loves it, you can tell, and the moment you're hard again he picks up his pace, stroking you up and down as he fucks deeper into your ass, each stroke in time with each other. _  
_

This time, you stay awake to feel him finish, feel that odd dick seem to spasm inside you, twitch in a way only inhumanly possible, spill an improbably amount of come inside of you. He returns the use of your mouth, just long enough for you to give another cry—

You think maybe he's had his fill, because he starts pulling out of you, steady and slow, bumping up against your prostate as he does—and then all his spill comes flooding out of you in a rush, so hard and painful and pleasurable it makes you come again, whiting out your vision and fogging your head.

 

* * *

 

Although the demons had originally decided on a week each, you're not sure if John's turns into two or three. You're barely aware of anything but movement and touch, of a complete consumption of your senses by sex and lust and _fucking,_ and you're not even sure if you're awake or dreaming by the end of it.

You are aware of...five, you think, five of those previously missing senses, maybe, when you come back to yourself slowly, held in John's arms and empty for once, as he carefully places you down on someone's bed. A scent like plants and sweetness surrounds you, you hear the soft murmur of exchanged words, you taste the drink of cool water you'd had and held on your tongue, you feel almost silken softness beneath you, and you think—you think, maybe you see, dreaming in green.

 

Time passes in the sweet bed you've found, and you find yourself drifting in and out of a conscious state. It's a lovely place to be, warm, work-roughened hands and good food. Eventually, you find yourself maintaining awareness for longer than a few moments at a time, and you realize that John's brought you over to Jade's room, filled to the brim with large and small and green growing things.


	3. catching lightning

You come to yourself slow once more, and Jade is stroking your hair.

 

"Hi Dirk!" Jade drops a kiss on the top of your head, and your eyes go wide— _oh,_ okay, this is...she is...goodness.

You're careful as you raise yourself up to sitting, and Jade helps you, much to your surprise, easing you upright and settling in beside you to hold you there. It's as different from the other two demons as she can get, and you're not entirely sure it's something you ought to comment on just now. "Hi."

Jade gives you a smile, and you're—yeah, fuck. Struck by lightning is accurate.

You'd noticed Jane first, definitely, that sense of _home_ she carried about her like a woven-warm cloak, but there's something about Jade that puts you in mind of worlds blooming into life after a damn long frost: she is welcoming, and she is kind.

 

(you have a feeling that runs deep as your bones that she can also be incredibly cruel, should she choose to be, but Jade Harley-Crocker is the kind of demon that makes you wonder if they really don't have souls.)

 

And you're rambling again. Jade's already tucked a weird nest of random soft shit around you and swept off to go...do something, to a tiny plant.

"So," you say, and, because you are still the master of eloquence, "uh."

Jade glances up from the tiny plant, then picks up a tiny pair of scissors and trims a tiny leaf off a tiny branch. "So, uh...what?"

You don't know how to say this. Suddenly, you feel as if even mentioning the words "I", "you", "we", or "fuck" in any sort of combination would be _incredibly_ dirty. "Uh," you try again, then glance down at your lap. You're in her pajamas. Whatever sentence you had somehow managed to assemble is completely and utterly ruined. "Shit."

"You're doing great, bud," she tells you, grinning. It's evoking a distinctly specific feeling—like when you remember that a tamed animal still has sharp teeth, and then remember again that it'll never bite you in violence—and you're not sure how to feel about it. "Take your time, though, we've got all week!"

"...seriously? How long have I been here?" You're trying not to sweat this one too much—a month, Jake had said, when you'd foolishly agreed to take a "vacation" with him and meet his family. You'd told your...clan felt a little too close to the demons, but family wasn't quite right either. You'd told them six weeks, padding things out. Had you really been considering infiltration? Not two scant days into Jake English-Crocker's allotted "week" of fun? Already knowing where fate and your footsteps—shit, Jade replied.

 

Filtering back in what someone said based on your memory of the sound wasn't something you'd suggest to just anyone. As for you yourself, you could perfectly recall that she'd said "three days", and _still_ have the mental space to panic. "Three days, but you still have a week?"

Jade shrugs, her focus on the plant. You wonder how her voluminous—good word for her, soundfeel implies some kind of glow or light, keep it—skirts don't keep her from tending all the things that she does. Yourself included. "Jane offered to give up some of her time, if you can't stay a whole week for her. John kind of did a number on you!"

You do not want to think of Jane giving up her time. That is unthinkable. Unconscionable. Fuck, John _really_ did a number on you.

"But that wouldn't be fair to her," Jade had continued, as you drifted off to think. Your mind snaps back in time for you specifically to hear her say, "so we're splitting the last eleven days between us, five and a half each."

"I can stay," you say, before your common sense can catch up with the immediate thought of _no that option is also unthinkable._ "For, uh. A bit longer. Probably."

Jade looks absolutely delighted, and part of you wonders what exactly Jane would look like, if she heard it as well. You want to think they'd both be happy—hell, you want to think that Jake and John would be happy as well—but you don't quite think you could handle their reactions, not just yet.

"That's great to hear, Dirk! So, see, we've got all week. I want you to take your time healing up, understood?" There's a stern sort of caring in her voice that hollows you out completely. "Good!"

You didn't manage an answer, but you don't think she really needed one. Instead, you settle back against the pillows to watch her work.

 

* * *

 

More time passes like this, and you end up spending most of it helping her with her work. You learn far more about plants and their habitats than you had before, and Jade praises you for the good work you do. It doesn't feel hollow or bullshit, which is something unusual for you. You've become well accustomed to all praise from people outside your clan feeling that way, after all. Hers...doesn't.

If you had more sense left in your thick Strider skull, you think you'd be scared.

Instead, you spend time with her, laugh with her, joke with her—hell, when a flood of rain comes down heavy one day, and the two of you have a mud fight, you don't even think about all the ways she could so easily be made to die. Instead, you laugh, and you follow her inside, hands up to shield you from the rain that won't do anything more than wash off your protective muddy coat.

Instead, you kiss her up against the wall of the shower, under the steam, surrounded by damp and dirty clothes you'd barely peeled off into a pile before she'd hit the switch to _hot_  and _on_.

 

She works your mouth open, her legs around your waist, one hand in your hair, the other draped over your shoulders as you hold her up. You are unbearably tempted to press further, but Jade's been so careful and tender with you that you wanna do the same with her. So you focus on the kissing, on the sweep of her dark hair colored darker by water, on the deep green of her eyes, on the way she smiles, the way your teeth bump and click when you both can't stop _smiling_  long enough to kiss, the _squelch_  of shifting wet bodies, the laughter that follows—

It's the best kind of intoxication you've ever felt.

"Come on, Dirk," she says, breathless against your mouth. You're not exactly a man made to resist temptation, and this is especially so when temptation looks on you with open thighs and sea-change eyes. You acquiesce; you enter her like it's the first time you ever have or will and the noise she makes when you do would've made you hard in moments flat if you hadn't been already.

"Jade," you murmur, and she kisses you again.

 

For once, you think you're _really_  getting what people mean by "the motion of the ocean". Each movement is shared between the two of you, under the warm rainfall of a shower designed like it's some temple to bathroom design, each thrust is slow and deep and steady, each rock of her hips is like the gentle jolting of a boat—wavelike, peaceful, quieting, calm. Pacific, even.

You're no longer a stupid enough kid to think sex is equivalent to love, but you think, maybe, if it was—you think it'd feel like this.

Jade's head tips back as she moans, and your mouth finds the hollow of her throat, licks the water off there and bites soft skin, slow and steady again. She shudders, she cries out, she does a million and one things with every motion, all of them almost a threat to have you spilling inside her. You would, in a heartbeat, if you weren't so determined to see her finish first. Fuck, you'd bet that she's _beautiful_  when she comes.

 

A few more thrusts, and your wish is granted, Jade coming apart all around you as she cries out _your_ name, rolls down against _your_  dick, begs for _your_  pleasure. Pride surges in you, and for once, it's not an ugly thing, it's not something you want to hide away or be ashamed of. You kiss her, then, with wild abandon, more free with yourself than you ever really are, and you climax at the height of it, as deep and powerful a thing as the sex itself had been.

Here, your memories blur into that crystal clarity you've sometimes found: Jade, eased out of your arms, helping you clean up; you, doing the same for her; Jade, dressing in soft things and finding you yours; you, leading her back through her workshop, into her bedroom, into her bed; Jade, settling close in your arms, tight and safe against your chest; you, holding her close and breathing in the scent of sweetness and green things and light. The two of you fall asleep to the sound of rain on the roof and thunder in the sky.

 

When you wake up the next morning, the memory is perfectly preserved, like you've tucked it away behind glass and a frame. You want to hang it up in your soul and keep it there forever.

 

Jade is a little slower to wake, but when she does, you've already darted to the bathroom and back, cleaned up and procured a glass of water and a pitcher for her. It's something the two of you have in common, waking up feeling a little dehydrated and dry, and besides, any amount of cold bathroom floor is worth it to see her smile.

"Hi," she tells you, and she laughs when you kiss her, batting your face away. "Morning breath, Dirk, jeeze!"

"Don't care," you inform her, and attempt to kiss her again. You fail, but valiantly so, in the line of duty and doing what is right, and your reward (and penance) is watching her roll out of bed and walk away.

Damn. Nice.

 

Besides, she returns mere moments later, beaming and happy in a way that makes you yourself smile, and she's brought fresh fruit along with her. The two of you have taken to eating your breakfasts like this, and to enjoying the very literal fruits of her garden alongside every meal. You steal a passionfruit out of her hands, and she rolls her eyes as she gets started on a pomegranate.

You're not going to comment on the symbolism, thank you very much.

For a moment, you wonder if something's shifted between you. Will things be different? Will she feel awkward? Will—heaven forbid—it get _weird_?

Really, you decide, you should've known better.

"So I think I want to take another look at that batch of seedlings we prepped two days ago," she says, as she cuts a papaya open and carefully removes the rind. "I'm still worried about seed rot."

"And I've told you before," you say, your next heartbeat trapped somewhere between relieved and amused, "they're going to be _fine._ "

Jade gives you a look and you grin, already knowing that before the day is out, the seedlings will be checked once more. You're finding that _sometimes_  you don't so much mind giving in. Rose is gonna have a fucking field day when she finds out.

 

* * *

 

Time comes and goes in Jade's extensive greenhouse-workshop-rooms, and you think it's somewhere between lunch and dinner when the two of you end up in the shower together again. This time, she makes you wait, makes you live on kisses and little else, and you think you'd go crazy if you didn't already have an inkling of what's in store.

Your guesses are proven true when you're fully dried off and Jade pushes you back onto the bed. Taking in the view of her is one thing, being treated to all of it the way you are is wholly another—she gets you settled back, she touches you as carefully as she'd tended you, she teases you until you think you might burst, and then she _takes_  you, all the way to the base in one smooth roll, so deep you wonder if she can feel you all the way through.

It might be wishful thinking to hope that she can, but you're finding it incredibly hard to care.

Down her hips roll, and you'd buck up into her but she pins your shoulders in a way that makes you think you're maybe not allowed—instead, you're left with the sight of her, gloriously brilliant and so incredibly alive, and you can't help but kiss her, whenever she comes in your range. "You look so _beautiful_ ," she murmurs, and you think you're maybe— _maybe_ —gonna cry.

"Jade—" Another kiss, another gasp, another roll down of her hips and up of yours to meet hers, just as up as she'll allow. "Oh, fuck, _Jade_ —"

"You're doing so good for me," she says, and you shudder, your nails digging into her hips. "Come on, Dirk. Let go."

You do. Too easily, lost inside her, too quickly, for your own taste, but you do.

Jade doesn't even seem upset—she's pleased, you can tell by the way she kisses you, all across your burning skin, strokes over your hair and keeps moving her hips. You haven't even gone soft; you think you maybe could last another round more. "You look _amazing_  when you come, Dirk, did you know that? You're absolutely gorgeous, and you've been so _good_  for me, these past few days."

"Really?" You can't help the question, as much as you hate yourself for asking it. Some part of you, will always be scared you aren't good enough, aren't even _enough_ , you think. Strange, then, how it seems to go quiet around her.

"Really." Another roll of her hips, and she tugs your hand up to her clit. You match your motions to hers and she lets you watch her climax all over again, tight around you, soft atop you, crying out your name. You're thinking that maybe you've fallen in a little too deep, but she's dizzying you enough that it's hard to really care.

 

This time, when Jade slides off of you, you can tell she's not quite done with you yet. The vibrant green spark in her eyes hasn't dimmed into a contented haze, and you swallow hard as you watch her move around the the room, unashamedly naked, looking like this is what she was born to do. "Jade—"

"Shh!" She's focused, intent on something. It reminds you of the hunting instincts Jake had shown, in a way that doesn't make you shiver. "Where did I...oh! Right!"

From some unassuming cabinet, she pulls a masterwork of art. One look is enough to tell you that it's heavy, made from dense hardwoods with a beautiful shine, but she lifts it easily as a feather and plops it down on a table with little in the way of fanfare. "Uh." Shit. You're really better at the verbal thing in your head. "So—"

"Toy chest!" Oh, _fuck._ "If you're into that kind of thing?"

"I, uh," you say, and curse yourself out a little more. "Yeah. I've been known to...dabble."

That is a lie, said like a fucking liar, but Jade's never going to see your literal closet of toys so you _think_ you're in the clear.

Now that you're thinking about it, though, you...kind of want her to see your literal closet of toys. Maybe try a few on for size. Try a few out on herself. On you. Both, even.

You are so absolutely thoroughly fucking screwed.

 

Jade has started getting things set up, as Jade so often does when you get distracted by your own mental ramblings. You kind of like that about her—actually, you think it's one of the things that makes you such a good team. The bone deep, immediate connection wasn't there (not the way it had been with Jake and Jane), but she'd snuck up on you, matching your robotics experience and furthering it, asking for your help in some of the designs she'd been working on, others that she'd intended to someday implement, and fixing up the current ones running around one.

And you're distracted again—it means you've missed the ceremonious laying out of the toys, but you think maybe Jade enjoys seeing the way your eyes go wide when the bed is "suddenly" covered in concupiscent aids.

You will not say "uh" again. You _refuse_  to say "uh" again.

"Uh."

You're going to fucking stab somebody.

"Breathe, Dirk," Jade says, and you do, because holy shit, you think you forgot to breathe.

From your "dabbling", you know that Jade's either going to let you pick for yourself, or decide that she wants to pick for you. Before she can actually say anything, and before you can actually process conscious thought, your hand snaps out in front of you and you somehow end up with a toy that looks _suspiciously_ like the detailed drawings in that one journal in the clan library you'd all been forbidden to read.

(you'd read it. thoroughly. twice.)

(...)

(possibly more than that but probably not as often as either Dave or Rose had.)

"Got a thing for demons, huh?" Jade's grinning, and your face is burning, much like the traitorous bastard it truly is. You _know_  she meant every layer of that innuendo, and you'd almost be impressed (or proud) about her prowess, if it weren't for the fact that you are completely ready to die, here and now, because _oh god_. "Alright!"

"Great," you manage to say, and then you end with an undignified yelp, because she yanked you back down the bed towards her. All of the toys are suddenly in the box once more, which is raising some mental questions for you about how much you spaced out versus what fucky demonic powers she's been using.

You know what? You're going to put it all down to the fucky demonic powers. Your ego could really use the boost right about now.

"I'm not going to put the box away _just_ yet," she informs you, hefting one of your legs up over her shoulder. Jade, unlike John and Jake, has actually pulled out a bottle of non-magical, ass-specific lube. You're kinda in awe. "I have a few ideas about things we can do!"

"Sure," you say, and you cut yourself off there, because one of her fingers just went up your ass and you're legitimately on the verge of a never ending ramble.

This is, again, the right answer, because Jade is beaming and therefore you have Done Good. Fuck. Now you're starting to sound like Dave, but it's a little hard to actually shut that part of your brain off under the full weight of Jade's attention and praise. She's looking so _proud_ of you, and for a moment, you get to feel like you're doing _so good._

Fuck. Now _she's_  saying that too. Out loud and _everything_.

"You know, I was really impressed when we were working together! You've got a good eye for this kind of thing—no, okay, hear me out." You had, actually, been about to protest: It's a sad fact of life, and one you already know, but your specialty does _not_  lie in living things. "I know you tend to approach things from the whole machine learning route, but that also means you're good at understanding conditions and optimizing! Pattern spotting, if you will—besides, sometimes plants are just little natural machines of their own, right?"

"Right," you say, like a dumbass who doesn't know what else to say. "I mean—"

" _Exactly,_ " Jade says, pushing another finger into you and stretching you in a way that makes you gasp. "No digging it down again with weird exceptions! You are _good_ at things, and I'm really pleased with all the work you did."

Oh, _fuck_. This is like the sexiest combination of your own personal heaven and whatever planned out hell you know is awaiting you some day in the future. A beautiful girl fingerfucking your ass and telling you you're good at things features in both of those, and you have several guesses as to why and even _more_  methods of repressing said guesses. Jade twists her fingers and pulls a low, guttural noise out of you, an almost mournful thing.

Instead of pushing it further, she presses a kiss to your chest and shifts over a little more. It means she can work your ass open while also stroking your hair, and you have an awful feeling that you're looking up at her all wide-eyed and hopeful-needy. "Shh, Dirk, it's okay. You're doing so, _so_  good."

Another noise spills out of you, and Jade keeps working at you until your whole body feels pulled open. By the time she slips the first toy—a vibrator—into you, you're too far gone to even notice that she has.

At least, you were. Right up until she'd turned it on.

 

Your back arches immediately, and you get that weird experience of _feeling_  like you should be hard, feeling like you're on the verge of straining-for-release, without actually being there. You're not sure _what_  weird demon shit this is, but...fuck, it feels _really_  good.

The sheets twist under you as your hands fist into them, and even more so when Jade starts playing with different settings and you begin to writhe. Maybe you'd known you had a kink for overstimulation when all of this crazy shit started, but you've gotta be honest, you didn't think it went _this_  far.

Jade's strength is a little intimidatingly surreal, when you're this fucked. She rolls you onto your stomach, lifting up your middle and stuffing a pillow under you when it becomes apparent that you're not going to be able to hold your hips up for very long. This proves to be both remarkably prescient and an incredibly good idea, because you end up rutting against the pillow in the most embarrassing fashion possible, and also, Jade pushes _another_  vibe into you.

Part of you is thinking maybe Jade and Dave would be totally excellent at jamming out music together, because Jade has the second best sense of timing you've ever seen, and part of you is suggesting you focus on the perfectly timed vibes currently buzzing up a goddamn duet against your prostate. You're...pretty sure both parts are going to end up in a tie, at least, with regards to receiving your attention.

Or not. You might get distracted again. That's an even more likely possibility.

 

Beneath where you once laid, the sheets have curved into beautifully patterned swirls, symbols of life and potentiality. It's almost amazing to think you'd made them with just your body, designs like that created in the throes of some impossibly spoken passion. Almost amazing. Incredibly fitting.

A shudder runs along the length of your spine, your legs begin to tremble, your hips jerk forward—Jade's touched you, you think, distantly. She's speaking to you as well, and you're barely aware of it, focus caught in a crystalline moment, everything your mind might possibly hold entwined with everything you are and everything else in this exact moment. It's so beautiful you want to cry, it's so perfect you think you might break—

Jade shoves another vibrator in you, and you _scream_.

 

* * *

 

Orgasms, you think, slowly coming back to your own body and mind, were _not_  meant to feel that good. It's a contradictory statement, to be sure, but you can't think of another one, especially not when the mind you're coming back to is still fogged and hazy with lust, and the body you're reentering is still vibrating with passion.

Or. Actual vibrators. Hm.

Guess Jade didn't take those out after all.

 

Actually, Jade had other plans, you're thinking, because, holy shit, the demon dick dildo is now buried in your fucking ass, and your perfectly tuned body has a very _specific_  kind of burn that tells you you've been rocking your hips down on it for a while, now. You've...you're a kinky fuck, okay? You've done sleep shit to yourself, with the help of perfectly programmed robots or dildos or willing partners and whatever you had on hand. Waking up to having fucked yourself stupid on something might be an _uncommon_  occurrence, but it's not an impossible one.

Only, now you're settled against Jade's shoulder while you do it, little jerky hip movements that have her cooing. "You're so, _so_  good for me, Dirk," she says, and you shudder again. Something in you aches, but Jade runs a hand across your skin and you can _feel_  everything rearrange inside of you. It's trippy, and sexy, and you make the most undignified sounds at the sensation of it. "I know, right? Come on, you look _amazing_."

Another little hip jerk, another kiss from Jade. You could...maybe get used to this? Maybe.

"I know I shouldn't be, but I'm actually really impressed with your other work." Confused noise? "You know! Hunting. You're good at what you do, Dirk Strider. That level of dedication and research is like, _scary_  impressive."

Hunting. You don't want to talk about hunting, you don't want to think about hunting, not when Jade's been so _good_  to you. Like the grownass man you are, you shove your face against her neck and shudder.

"Hey," Jade says, jostling you into leaning against her arm. The way she holds you, you practically _have_  to look up at her. "No hiding. Even if you don't like all of yourself, _I_  do, and I think you are so incredibly good."

 

Once upon a time, you used to wonder what would break you. Now that you know the answer, you are so incredibly scared of what it might mean.

 

Tears streak down your skin, and Jade kisses you, like she wants to soothe you even as she refuses to help hide away your tears. You and vulnerable emotion, it's a really bad mix, and you'd tell her as much if you weren't all but drowning in feelings and sensation and that desperate, _aching_  need you'd thought you'd forgotten how to know.

Another sob escapes you, and Jade takes over, rocking the toy in and out in exactly the ways you like. Your addled brain thinks that maybe she's set some kind of spell on the toy, one that makes it change to fit wherever will make you scream the most, or hit up against all the places that are practically begging her to let you come. You want to finish, but you can't, you think you could finish, but you already know that you won't, and you're crying, an ugly, ungainly, _messy_  sort of emotion that you wish could cease to exist.

And Jade kisses you, and fucks you, and lets you cry until you _finally_  come.

 

* * *

 

You feel awkward and subdued, the next day after, but Jade doesn't seem to mind. She's gentle with you, careful in a way you'd always assumed you'd never want, and some part of it feels so wrongly right. The rhythm comes back all too easily, working together, laying together, sleeping together—you don't want it to end, even though you're almost desperate for Jane's week to come.

Jade fucks you into crying twice more, and you don't know how to feel each time. Overburdened by emotional upheaval? Grateful, for this kind of release? Safe, seen; welcomed, warned; lost, found—it is, for once in your life, too goddamn much.

 

Altogether, you're filled with an unusual sense of _silence_  in yourself, when you walk into Jane's room, unaided and almost unafraid. It's baptism by fire, and damn if you're not feeling like a new man.


	4. let them bow

Jane, when you walk in, is not paying any attention to you.

You'd like to pretend that you're not offended by the sight of her behind a desk, glasses perched on a pert little nose, scanning over some recipe and making annotations in a book of accounts. You'd like to pretend that it doesn't _bother_ you that she seems to have more important things to do than, well, _you,_ especially when you've been waiting for this moment for far longer than you want to admit.

Unfortunately, you're both an incredible liar and absolutely incredible at seeing through lies.

 

Truly, your life is a curse.

 

The novelty Betty Crocker® 60-Minute Easy Timer Kitchen Timer Clock with Spoon Hands ticks its way through a solid half hour in the background. You aren't a hunter if you can't stay still, an Ampora had once told you, and if he was right, you're definitely proving your status now.

Unfortunately, you're also not a Strider if you don't get massively fucking impatient from time to time, and you're proving _that_ status right now as well.

 

While you're not usually one for the polite little cough, meant to interrupt someone's focus without _actually_ interrupting, you know when to use it. This is one of those times.

Or not, because Jane doesn't react beyond a momentary pause in her work.

You try again, because—well, some things need to be tested. This is...probably one of them.

This time, Jane stops, sighs, and actually looks up at you. "Can I _help_ you," she says, with all of the tone that completely cancels it out from being a question.

 

Okay. So.

You're pretty good at dealing with unexpected shit. In fact, you would go so far as to say that your skills are practically unparalleled in your family, that you have been commended on them many a time before, that there's no point in being modest about what you _know_ is true.

But Jane Crocker _might_ be throwing you for the teensiest bit of a loop right about now.

"I suppose not," you say, hooking your thumbs in your pockets. Current Dirk is very grateful that Past Dirk decided on going with the shades after all. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I'm putting that on par with the bad pickup lines from pizza delivery porn," Jane says, and frowns down at the paper. "Actually, Mr. Strider, there _is_  something you can help me with."

Your spine straightens out, and you hope like hell that the eager look in your eyes isn't as readily visible as you think it might be, even hidden behind your shades as they are. "Yeah?"

"Are you _done_?"

You...blink. What? "What?" You're not sure what she's on about. You're not sure you want to know, in fact.

"You expected coming here to be some grand last stand. As much as you want to fool yourself, you can't. You knew who we were and what you were 'up against' before you even set foot in our house. Did lying to yourself about having realized the truth make you feel better?" Your mouth opens. "Don't answer that." It snaps shut. "You've always _assumed_  you would sacrifice yourself on the altar of some higher cause, didn't you? Oh, a glorious fall in the line of duty! Perished, by the hand of your own nobility! Hoo, I myself would be in a tizzy, hearing of such an admirable man!"

Your face burns, and it's not for the reasons you want it to. While the thought of Jane in a tizzy is definitely _nice_ , you have a feeling that this is not the road she means to lead you down, and you have a feeling she plans to poke more holes in your pride before the destination arrives. "Really now."

Those blue eyes are sharper than any anime sword you could wield. "The only higher cause you server is your own ego, Mr. Strider, and even if you told yourself that this was to be your last stand, everyone here—and yes, this includes you—knows that you came here for your own selfish reasons." Wishing that she had a mic to drop is your own way of insulating yourself against the diatribe you know is coming. "Ego and lust."

Fuck.

"But, I'm a benevolent woman!" Jane stands, and you're afforded the opportunity to see her in all of her elegance and grace. You're reasonably sure she picked out the attire of a Greco-Roman goddess just for you (and the sake of this dressing down you're receiving), and it does nothing to help your, ah. Ego. Or lust. "If sacrifice is what you want, I believe we can make such a thing happen."

And then she turns on a heel and starts walking out, and as your eyes trace up and down her shape you're reminded (by yourself, of course) that once upon a time, "buxom" meant "lively and good-tempered".

 

* * *

 

Jane's private quarters are as different from Jake or John or Jade's as could be, but then, every demon you've seen so far is remarkably individual in their personalities and tastes. Were it not for the fact that they were the literal spawn of hell, you might start going down a path most demon hunters would eventually tread: Wondering if those you hunted weren't still so human after all.

It's not a path you intend to tread. You have better things to do by far.

 

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you're just a little bit rattled.

 

You let Jane lead you along the path you've been walking, like a lamb to the slaughter. You do not think, for once in your life, beyond your customary notation of details, beyond construing thoughts based on them, beyond the absolute basic of standard functionality. You do not even blink when she stops in front of an altar on a high dais.

It is, you think, an architectural marvel. The graceful swoop of vaulted ceilings, made of some type of shimmering glass, a cathedral built to call and catch the light. It does not burn, the way you would have expected concentrated light to burn. Instead, it feels...heavy. Syrup slow on your skin, pooling and collecting wherever it may.

It is, you know, beautiful.

And Jane—Jane, beautiful, blue and gold and white—looks so at home in such a holy space.

You'd fall to your knees in worship if she didn't catch you halfway down.

 

Jane settles you on the altar, and her blue gaze is a mercy and a curse to behold. Strange, how these demons got under your skin, strange, how three weeks of chase and cry and care have rendered you speechless and helpless before her.

Well.

Maybe not so strange after all.

Her fingertips run over your chest, and you stare at her, waiting for the next command. Some part of you has always wondered if perhaps you were meant to obey. From the look in Jane's eyes, you think that she might have been wondering too—or hell, maybe she knew.

"Here's the thing, Dirk," she says, and you had not thought her voice would be as melodious as this. "At the rate you're either going to die for someone, you're going to end up wishing they'd kill you _just_  so you could have served them completely."

She's right, but you don't want her to be.

"You want to die for a cause that is finally, _finally_  not your own—and I think, in some twisted way, you want your death to _make_  it yours." Her touch raises goosebumps on your bare skin. When did she strip you down? "The thing, is, though! That's incredibly selfish, don't you think?"

"Wanting to save people is selfish?"

"Are you sure that's what you're truly meaning to do?"

You really, _really_ do not like feeling seen. You like it a hell of a lot less when it's a demon seeing you, and you're about to move off the altar when Jane holds up a hand. "What."

"Leave now, and we're done."

Up goes the eyebrow. "Yeah? Is that a promise?"

"Yes."

 

You don't answer. You don't move. Jane knows you well enough already to know what that means, and when her hands land on your skin again, a ripple of relief rolls its way right through the whole of you. "Since you can't seem to _help_ but be selfish, well! I suppose I'll have to indulge you, won't I?"

You have no idea what this means, but you've got a _really_ good feeling about it. This only increases when Jane swings herself up onto the altar, her thighs straddling your hips, and slowly lowers herself down onto you. She doesn't brace on your shoulders, she doesn't alter her pace even the slightest bit. She moves like a force of nature: Unstoppable, implacable, and impossible to resist.

It's maybe the first time in your goddamn life that you're willing to bow before nature—you have never before accepted the things you thought you could change.

 

A thought passes, as she moves against you, your body bound to the altar by a force greater than your own self: This might be the only way you know how to worship. It's as cold a comfort as the stone beneath your skin.

 

From where you are, you watch her lips part, her eyes alight, the curve of her throat the curve of her chest her hips her sides her body—

Now the light is warmth, wrapping around you, dressing you in your own cloth of gold to match Jane in silvery white. You can see it affect her, softly billowing fabric beginning to adhere to her skin, drops of sweat you wish you could emulate trickling down her skin, the way she begins to chase each breath. If only she'd let you work. If only she'd let you _serve_ her.

Here is something you know about Jane Crocker: She carries power in every fiber of her being. She is _made_ of it, for it, built to claim it. It would be terrifying, if it was not so good; it would be overwhelming, if it had not already completely consumed you, had not already swallowed you whole.

You're well aware that she is glory and light, and now you are beginning to learn that she is something even greater than that, that she is life itself, and she has _deigned_ to let you touch her.

Jane gasps out a cry, and your hips do not even buck. Why would they? She has no need of that, of you, of your attention—and if she doesn't _need_ you, that means you're here, beneath her, _inside_ her, because she _wants_ you. It's the greatest gift you've ever been given, and much as you loathe her for it, you long to give her any gift you can in return.

_Look at me, Dirk,_ she says without saying, in a voice that reeks of the essence of life. _Look at me._

You obey, because refusing to obey is unthinkable, and she is a sight to behold—you were already looking at her, but yes, _yes,_ she was right, you needed to look harder, see better— _  
_

"You don't have to die to serve me, Dirk," she says, and her voice is hers again, and isn't, not nearly so much as the other one was. "I promise you, there are other ways."

"Anything," you gasp out, because yes, _anything,_ you want to submit to her, you want to give her everything she wants and needs and could ever even think of asking for, you want to give her everything you could _imagine_ her asking for, and that is a damn sight more far than you ever thought you would go. "Jane, _anything._ "

"That's a start," she tells you, and you think it would be all too easy to cry once more. "But we're not _quite_ there yet."

Before you can ask her what she means—of course you're there, of _course_ you're ready, she can have whatever she wants out of this hollowed shell of a body you're currently residing in—she rolls her hips down in such a way that it drives you to the climax you'd been too lost to notice approaching, in such a way that it triggers her own. Her head snaps back, and a cry spills past her lips, matched by the sound you make as you feel yourself spill in her. It's a beautiful, blasphemous thing, sanctity made sin, and you want to bathe in it for the rest of forever.

In the space between the beginning of your shared orgasm and the end, though, Jane takes you even further. Her nails sharpen up to claws, and she opens a series of cuts on your chest, seemingly random and unfailingly precise. Even in this state, you know them for what they are.

Jane Crocker has marked you as her newest possibility for a thrall.

 

Even if you wanted to challenge it, you don't think you can. Even if they didn't have this planned from the beginning, you don't think you'd mind. You do think you're too far gone to make any sane or sensible decisions, although that seems to be less of an issue and more of an...observation.

Jane moves—you think she moves, certainly you do, the world tilting around you—and all you can see is altar stone. You can feel her, though, all up against your back, tugging your hips up and wrapping a hand around your dick. She's got your face and chest pressed up against the stone like she's planning to paint with your blood, and she's stroking at you like she thinks you'll be able to get it up again any minute.

You're pretty sure she's wrong. She's even more sure that she's right.

The relentless quality of her attention gives you as much arousal as the attention itself. Before long, you're mixing blood and sweat with come, staining the altar with all Jane wants you to give. You still haven't been allowed to move. You still have no idea what is up or down. You are still only aware of the light, the stone, the demon.

The demon— _Jane_ —is beneath you. You are finally allowed to move.

Immediately, your hips roll deep, a forward jerk of a motion that has her pretty lips split. She doesn't even have an edge of hellfire to her; either she is more human than all of the others or she is merely better at hiding from you what she truly is. The thought might scare you, if it didn't intrigue you. Maybe it does both, maybe you should consider the angles, maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe you should actually _fuck_  her while she's willing to let you go so far as to touch her perfect skin. Part of you—and you will never ignore this part—thinks you should be groveling on bended knee for the mere _chance_  to see her, especially when you're in such a state. Her hand runs through your hair, like she's absolving you of even considering those sins, and you are even more determined to show your gratitude with every single thrust.

Finally allowed to move. It means you finally have a chance to show her your use, it means you finally can see her properly, hear each little cry as you bring it forth. You don't think you were meant for so much effort in one go, but you know that it's neither the first nor the last time that you'll have to work on willpower alone. At least Jane—at least _this_ —is something worthwhile.

You gasp her name out, nearly bowed over her, a burning ache to please well-wrapped around your throat. Earlier, you think maybe you had a thought about being hollow. Earlier you had no idea what hollow really was.

 

* * *

 

Time passes. You think it does, at least, and you wonder if time is truly passing or if things are shifting in ways you can't seem to know. You do know that you are lost, in a different way than you had been with John. You do know that the only time you are found is when Jane, beautiful, glorious, goddess Jane, is with you. When you are with her.

You have no idea how you know this, but you do. The moment time ticks away on Jane's last day with you, you somehow seem to snap right back into yourself, realizing exactly who, what, and where you are. It's like your eyes are open once more, and you find yourself overwhelmed, almost, by the lack of overwhelming things.

Jane tilts her head, looking you over. You're on your feet, dressed in your own clothes, with no idea of how you'd gotten there. "Good, you're looking very well, Dirk. Are you ready to go?"

"...go?" The word sounds like a foreign language to you, and you blink, heavy-slow. Your shades are on the table, but you don't feel naked without them. Not until Jane pushes them over to you.

"Yes," she says, plucking up her own glasses to examine her papers. "Someone can drop you off, if you'd like. In fact—" The other three burst through the door, and you're wrapped up in a surprisingly celebratory atmosphere, slaps on the back and cheerful farewells, all of them seemingly excited to see you.

You are, once more, overwhelmed. It's a surprisingly comfortable place to be.

 

You're overwhelmed all the way out to the fancy car they load you into (somehow, someone had persuaded Jane to come along, even if she refuses to let her paperwork go), overwhelmed all through the drive—are they really _reminiscing_ about the sex? Holy god—and overwhelmed straight back to the raw edge of the Strider Clan's compound.

Then you stare at them, and you wait, for something other than...this. You think, sort of, you're not disappointed: Jane steps forward, looks you over. "As I said," she tells you, with something like a smile. You want to see it full, in bloom. "We're not quite there yet."

And then she turns, and she goes, and that's the last you hear of that.


	5. goddamn

Your clan knows far too much about making a broken man whole.

 

You're given your space for as long as they're willing to allow, then they pry you out of it with whatever tools are at hand. Your brother, your cousins, you are given no quarter when it comes to "recovery", and honestly, you wouldn't want any. For the first few days, it's hard to sleep. For the next few, it's hard to eat.

Then slowly, things start coming back together in intricate little ways you never expected to be possible, or even real.

You stop seeing them in every color of the trees and sky. You stop wondering about them, what they're doing, if John was still playing stupid video games, if Jake had a new rifle to practice with, if Jade's plants were doing well, if Jane—

You stop wondering, and you think you're starting to do a little bit better.

 

This is, of course, the point where any sane story would have them reappear once more. The moment where they'd turn up to throw your life into disarray again, stake their claim and haul you back off to a demon's equivalent of Faerie (you've been, it's not bad), maybe even keep you forever.

 

Only...they don't. It feels like a failure on the part of every novel you've ever read, to prepare you for such an unsettling disappointment. It's the kind of thing that would burn in your immortal soul, if you ever gave yours a thought.

At first, you think that you ought to mourn. After all, haven't you just faced a great loss? When you try, though, you realize that your mourning is already done, was finished during that odd period of time your clan ensured you would have. There's literally nothing else left for you to do but learn how to get better.

So you do, of course. No one could fault you for not _trying_ to play to the narrative, and you still...well, you still have a job to do, changed though it—you—might be.

It's better this way, of course. To have survived a trial by fire. Come back a changed man, a new man, a wiser man, perhaps even a stronger man.

It's better.

Of course.

 

It's the _best_ when you finally stop waking up in the middle of the night with a scream that will never be voiced caught in your throat, the threads of a nightmare draped over your shoulders like the world's stupidest cloak—what if they'd _forgotten_ you.

 

* * *

 

When you feel the first tug, you do not know it for what it is. Of course it makes sense that you'd feel this certain kind of stirring. It was the anniversary of your release just the other day, and the passing of time has a tendency to make a man's mind wander back. You'd expect nothing less, you'd expect nothing else.

The second is easily dismissed as well: A glimmer, a reflection, all of it put you in mind of the four of them. It is, apparently, a day to dwell. You'd dwell on that, if you weren't so dead set on not dwelling on anything any longer. You have a job to do.

The third is absolutely fucking unmistakable and it stops you dead in your tracks.

 

It's as if Jane herself whispered your name into your ear, and when you look down at your chest, you can see, through your thin white shirt, the faint glow of the marks she carved— _traced_ —the marks your clan worked _very_ hard to erase. Jane. Jane is calling you home.

Everything teeters on the brink of a precipice. Funny how your mind circles back around to cliché when it runs out of weapons to defend with, even though the words they mean may be all too true. If you stay, you know this bond will break. They will be gone, forever. You will be free, forever.

If you go...

If you go, you'll be able to serve them again.

 

When you put it like that, it's not even a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)


End file.
